Car Rental

"What's our number again?" One of the kids asked. "52," Simone replied, glumly staring at the screen, willing it to no avail to move beyond number 41. The staff behind the car rental counter at the Rome airport, evidently short staffed to deal with the throngs of tourists wanting to rent a vehicle, looked more sullen than the people they served. In addition, after a ten hour flight, the family was parched and the inevitable conclusion of drinking gallons of water bought at the seedy convenience stand led to using the facilities. And, of course, no cleaning crew worked on this most holy of Sundays, the day of the soccer finals when Italy played Spain. God Bless the Father, the Son and the Holy Soccer. In short, the facilities were a stinking, overflowing, disgusting mess. However, miracles do happen in time, even in that outdated Italian airport, and number 52 finally came up. The clerk took Simone and hubby through the rental of their two vehicles, a van and a smaller car, to accommodate everyone and their luggage. Yup. Simone would *gulp* have to drive standard on Italian roads. "Okaaaayyy," said the clerk. "Zis is the key to your car. You 'ave to bring zuh car back wiz a fool. If you no bring zuh car back wiz a fool, you pay surcharge." Simone, jet-lagged and exhausted, stared uncomprehendingly at the clerk. "Fuel," whispered hubby. "We have to bring the car back with fuel." Oh. Can we go now?